


The Absoluteness of Nothing

by Calon Lân (Baruch_HaShem)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "No.", 'minor' self harm, Depression, Running Away, Sherlock Loves John, Suicidal Ideation, imaginary drug use, mention of Sherlock's past drug use, mostly pov Sherlock, short case
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-14 00:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7144514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baruch_HaShem/pseuds/Calon%20L%C3%A2n
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock does not cope well with John answering "No. I can't." when he tells him that he loves him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "No. I can't."

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger warning: Do not read if you are triggered or bothered by: descriptions of depression, suicidal ideation, drug use!**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "See. Water. Food. I'll be in my room for a while. Don't try to come in. The doors will be locked," he announces.

_helpless_  
_hopeless_  
_aimless_

Sherlock is thinking words in his head about the futility of his situation: Last night, he told John that he loves him. John said, "No. I can't."

_no point_  
_no hope_  
_no future_

John is not moving out. John is still his friend. Yet things are awkward between them.

_nothing I can do_  
_nothing he can do_  
_nothing can be done_

"Sherlock, are you going to have something to eat?" John asks.

Sherlock does not reply. He lies on his side, face to the back of the couch, smiles thinking of John.

"You need to drink something at least." John's voice is beginning to sound exasperated. The glass of water from last night still sits on the coffee table, untouched. It is the following afternoon.

_no way_  
_no go_  
_no future_

"I hope you won't protract this too much longer! I don't know how long I can see you like this. - No one ever said 'no' to you before?"

The remark stings. He wonders whether John intended it to sting, or whether the jab at his past, which John does not really know much about, was unintentional.

When he was 22, he had an affair with his drug dealer. The man was married, bisexual, verbally, emotionally and physically abusive. His initial sweet words of approval soon turned into words of abuse and insult. Four months and 3 days, then he was dropped in favor of another drug addict who suited the dealer's sexual appetites better.

He let his body be used for sex on other occasions, when he didn't have money to pay for drugs. The people using him did not say 'no.' He did not care about them.

He and John have not been more than friends, have not been intimate. John has not verbally, emotionally or physically abused him. John does not want him to take drugs. Which he is certainly thinking about right now, to numb his emotional pain.

"Sherlock, please, I'm sorry..." John stands behind the couch, looks down at Sherlock from that angle. His face clearly shows his concern.

It's no use, Sherlock concludes, John won't leave him alone. He'll have to pretend that he is fine. Be a good actor. Maybe he'll be able to provoke him to leave. Maybe he should just stop eating and drinking, stop speaking.

_it's no use_  
_it's hopeless_  
_this hurts_

He looks up, into John's eyes. John does care for him, he knows. He just does not love him.

_nothing can be done_  
_it's hopeless_  
_I want to die_

He does not dare ask John whether he may reconsider, knows he cannot bear hearing 'no' again right now. Swallowing, he closes his eyes for a long second, before turning over and sitting up without looking at John. Sighing, he reaches for the glass of water, downs it in several gulps, then makes his way to the kitchen.

_not reciprocal_  
_unrequited_  
_no hope_

Because John normally is the one bringing him crackers on a small plate, he does not know which cupboard they are in. He rummages through a few, before locating them. Pursing his lips, his heart rate and breathing picking up from being upset, he fumbles with the plastic bag in the carton to retrieve some. He grabs five, sticks them all at once into his mouth. Chewing, he replaces the plastic bag in the carton, puts the carton back into the cupboard.

"Th..., ...y?" He chews out passing John who watches him from the kitchen doorway.

John's face looks quite serious. He can feel his look following him into the bathroom until he firmly pushes the door shut. Inside, hanging his head, he leans his back against it for a minute, before using the toilet.

Once the toilet tank is filled again, the bathroom is very quiet. After brushing his teeth and having a very quick shower, he goes directly into his bedroom, the small box containing drug paraphernalia and supplies he retrieved from its hiding place, tucked in a pocket of his robe.

Having stashed the box under his mattress, he makes his way into the kitchen. John, meanwhile is sitting on the couch, a medical journal on his lap. Not knowing when he will reemerge from his bedroom, Sherlock grabs five one liter bottles of water and a plastic cup, then adds the whole carton of crackers. He makes a point to stop in front of the couch, to display his supplies.

"See. Water. Food. I'll be in my room for a while. Don't try to come in. The doors will be locked," he announces. It is not quite 6 PM.

John looks serious again, his eyes widen imperceptibly.

"Why do you want to lock your doors? You know I'll break the door down if I deem it necessary."

"You won't deem it necessary," Sherlock says dismissively. "I just want some privacy. Think."

"I don't like this!" John's eyes are narrowed in suspicion.

"You don't have to."

"I'll be coming in if you don't answer when I knock."

"You don't trust me?"

"Not right now," John admits. "How long do you plan to stay in there?"

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. "I'll be fine."

"Please, don't use drugs, Sherlock. - Don't do anything foolish. I _am_ your friend!" John says evenly, sincerely.

"I know. Thank you for expressing your concern for me." Sherlock looks at the floor, proceeds into his bedroom, deposits the box of crackers, plastic cup and one of the bottles of water on his nightstand, the other four bottles beside his bed on the floor. He makes sure both doors leading into his bedroom are locked, then lies down on his bed.

_no point_  
_no hope_  
_no future_

He knows John will be knocking on his door in a while. To make sure he's okay. He does not want him to use drugs. He'll try to hold off using the ones stashed under his mattress for a while. He feels numb, shocked, stares at the ceiling.

_What was I thinking?_  
_Why did I even ask?_  
_**How can I live?**_

Uncharacteristically for him, he notes, he cannot think straight or logical, only manages words and short phrases.

He hurts, because he loves John.

***


	2. imaginary/technically

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Sherlock_ , what is this?! Open this door right now! I need to see you! - _Please_ ," John adds, trying to control the tremor in his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning:** Please do not read if you are triggered or bothered by descriptions of imaginary drug use, minor self-harm, mention of suicidal thoughts!  
>  **Should you feel like hurting or trying to kill yourself, please speak with someone, for instance you can call a crisis line!**

Sherlock lies in bed, knowing the small box containing drugs and the paraphernalia to use them is just beneath him. In a way it is comforting to have temporary "relief" for this wretched pain of his heart close by. He reaches underneath the mattress, pulls the box out, holds it in his hand, strokes the metal.

Memories of times when he used drugs in the past come back: good times, bad times, times he was abused, beaten up, prostituted himself, the few times he overdosed, ... 'Not good! Don't even think about it,' he hears John say in his head. Using drugs is not the answer, he knows it. Still, it is tempting. He opens the box, takes out the syringe, attaches a needle, holds the small bag with the white powder in his hand, looks at it closely. So close, he can see individual grains of powder, tiny scratches on the needle.

He imagines mixing the powder, pulling the mixture up into the syringe, tying his arm, shooting up, feeling the rush start, taking the tourniquet off, the rush taking over, spreading throughout his body, turning him on, taking over, flooding every cell of his body including his brain with glorious _blissblissblissblissblissblissblissbliss..._ for an undetermined while ... flying, fantastic, soaring, floating on cloud 1564229, drifting, heart racing, hallucinating ... falling, sinking, feeling bad, coming down ... lethargic, headache, sick, shaking, only a matter of time ... want to use again ... want to die. -- Using drugs is not the answer, he knows it. John is right, but he thought about it.

For an imaginary "hit" this was not bad, he concludes, opening his eyes. Is it going to work as well without holding an empty syringe and bag of powder, looking at a needle, to facilitate remembering? He disassembles the syringe, stores it back in the box with the bag of real drugs. Noticing the razorblade he used to prepare drugs with, he wonders whether self-harm might make him feel better. He has not really self-harmed a lot in his life, only rarely during times of extreme emotional stress.

He takes the blade out of the box, places the box on his nightstand. 'Please don't hurt yourself,' he hears John in his head, again. His breathing picks up, he is upset. Standing in front of the mirror above his dresser, he holds the blade close to the pulse point underneath his jaw, on the side of his neck. Using self-control, he only presses down lightly. He has to look very close at his reflection to notice the tiny drop of blood emerging at the spot. There, he self-harmed, the skin was broken, there was blood, if only a minuscule amount. - Self-harm is not the answer, he knows it. John is right, but he did it, technically.

He holds the blade to the pulse point on his left wrist, presses down lightly. ' _Sherlock, don't!!!_ ' he hears John call in his mind. Another tiny drop of blood emerges, he does not bother wiping it off. How long would it take to bleed to death? He looks at the alarm clock on his nightstand. Only four minutes left until, he guesses, John will knock at his bedroom door. Not enough time to bleed to death, he concludes. - Trying to kill himself is not the answer, he knows it. John is right, but he is thinking about it.

Frustrated, he returns the blade to the metal box, closes it. Lying back down on his bed, he closes his eyes, sighs. He wishes he was dead. He does not know how to live with this pain. Knowing that John is _not_ heterosexual does not help. It feels like "No. I can't." has changed his world, forever. Things between him and John will not be as before. _Why did I not keep my mouth shut?!_ He feels like trashing his room, but that would only bring John in sooner. Right now, he does not want to face him.

When he hears John's footsteps approaching to check on him, before he can change his mind, because, yes, John is right, he decides to get rid of the box containing his drug paraphernalia, supplies and the blade. He gets up, grabs it, slides the slim box underneath his bedroom door, just as John knocks.

"Sherlock, how... are you?"

Standing right behind the door, Sherlock can picture John on the other side, noticing the box, bending down to pick it up. Hearing a very faint 'click' he knows John has opened the box, is looking inside. _Hopefully he won't notice..._

" _Sherlock_ , what is this?! Open this door right now! I need to see you! - _Please_ ," John adds, trying to control the tremor in his voice.

"I don't want to see you," Sherlock states matter-of-factly. "You're overreacting. It's nothing."

"I can see blood on this blade. That's not 'nothing'! - Open the door!"

Sherlock remains quiet, tries to think of his options. _Shit!_

John wonders whether there are other things in Sherlock's room that he could hurt himself with. He has belts, ties, possibly other sharp objects or drugs... Determined, he takes a deep sigh.

"I do need to see you, Sherlock, and speak with you. I'm counting to ten. If the door is not open by then, I'll come in. Want to open it now?"

Sherlock notes that, despite trying to sound calm and cool, John is upset. He does not want to face John.

"Ten ... nine ... eight ... seven ... six ..."

To Sherlock, it seems that, somehow, time is slowing down, he blinks.

"five ...," John pauses, Sherlock can picture him pursing his lips, clenching his fists, calculating already at this point how best to get into Sherlock's room, ready to protect him, from himself, no less, even now.

"four ... three ... two ... one."

Sherlock swallows, turns the key to open the door.

John looks very concerned, sad, frustrated and angry.

"Hello, John, how are you?" Surprised, Sherlock realizes that he is smiling at John.

"You,..." John grabs Sherlock by his arm, leads him to the bathroom. Once the light is turned on, he ushers him to the sink.

"I don't want your attention, or your pity," Sherlock bites out, trying to shake off John's hold on his arm.

"I'm definitely _not_ pitying you. - Hold still and let me see," John insists.

"There's nothing to see."

"You said you wanted to think. I do thank you for giving up your supplies. But the blood on that blade was fresh, so, please, let me have a look."

"I could have cut myself accidentally," Sherlock says in a quiet voice, resigned.

John takes a deep sigh. "Right, I'm aware of that. Please, let me look, Sherlock."

As he turns his head to let John look at the side of his neck, and turns the underside of his left wrist up to let him see the tiny drops of blood, Sherlock feels very sad.

John takes a very close look at both spots. Putting his hand across his brow, he looks equally sad.

"Sherlock,... that's not the answer."

"I know. That's why I gave you the box."

For a few seconds they search each other's face. They both hurt, for different reasons.

***


	3. attuned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do I need to be worried about you?"  
> 'Yes,' Sherlock thinks, defiantly.

John has retrieved antiseptic wipes from the little cupboard on the bathroom wall. He uses a fresh one for dabbing at each of the spots where Sherlock broke the skin, producing two tiny drops of blood. Being so small, they can hardly be called "wounds." Still, John feels it necessary to tend to them.

Sherlock observes John in the mirror: he looks all professional, only the clenching of his jaw betrays his tension. The small box is tucked in his jeans by his back, like a gun. Sherlock is trying to muster enough brain power to calculate his odds of success to grab it back.

"Don't even think about it."

It sounds like a growl, confronting Sherlock with the fact that John noticed him staring at the box. He has lost his edge, is not paying attention to his facial expressions, for the time being. He needs to get this box back, shoot up, for real, or use the blade to cause more serious harm. Not having finished calculating his odds of success, he reaches for the box, tries to be quick, to run with it into his bedroom, lock the door, ...

His hand does not even reach the box. The antiseptic wipe is still falling to the ground, John has grabbed his wrist very firmly, stopped his movement.

"That, right there..." John's face looks hard, sad, determined. He swallows, before continuing, looking Sherlock in the eye, "is... no, you don't get this box back, nor its contents."

'I should have you committed to hospital, you're a danger to yourself,' he hears John say in his head.

"I'm not," he answers, a testament to how much they are attuned, anticipating the other's movements and thoughts.

John's nostrils are flaring, he purses his lips. "Let's go sit in the living room and talk." He lets go of Sherlock's wrist, gestures for him to proceed.

"I don't want to talk," Sherlock says, pouting, but sits down on the couch, nevertheless, feet on the coffee table, crossed at the ankles. They remain quiet for a minute while John studies Sherlock's face, Sherlock refuses to look at him.

"Do I need to be worried about you?"

'Yes,' Sherlock thinks, defiantly.

"Please answer, the question, Sherlock."

Sherlock presses his lips together. After a few seconds of silence John nods, he has his answer.

"I'll make us some tea." He gets up, on his way to the kitchen briefly squeezes Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock, closes his eyes, shakes his head. "Don't...," he starts, then hugs his knees to his chest. He listens to the familiar sounds of tea being prepared, pictures John putting water in the kettle, getting their teacups ready... It's been almost 24 hours since he told John that he loves him, he realizes. How can he _not_ love him back?

"I know you're not heterosexual," he states once John is seated in his armchair again, after having deposited Sherlock's cup in front of him on the coffee table.

"Yes?" John raises his eyebrows. "What does that have to do with anything?" He takes a sip from his own cup.

Sherlock closes his eyes, dismayed. John's sexual orientation, bisexual, does not automatically mean that he wants to be more than platonic friends with him. Maybe he only found him sexually attractive, but does not want to have a romantic relationship?

"Do you find me sexually attractive?" Sherlock is curious now.

"Yes, I do." John's relief to be able to speak about it is obvious. "You know, you could have asked me this before." He looks sad.

"But you don't even want to have sex with me, be 'friends with benefits', because you know that I love you, and you don't love me back," Sherlock figures out. Yes indeed, why did he not speak with John about his feelings when they were still budding, before he realized fully that he loves him? Maybe he could have done _something_ different, so they would not be sitting here now. It's too late, John said "No. I can't." Sherlock believes this will not change.

He reaches for his cup, sips on it, lost in thought for a minute. The implications of this 'no' are sobering and staggering: He will have to spend his life without John as his life partner. John does not want them to spend their lives together like that.

"I'm tired," Sherlock states, putting the teacup down. If he goes into his bedroom John will insist that he keep the door open, so he decides to lie down on the couch, facing the coffee table, this way he can see John if he wants to.

The sad silence permeating the living room feels almost oppressive. Sherlock does feel tired, emotionally drained, exhausted. He starts thinking about things he will not be experiencing with John.

_share everyday life as a couple_  
_hold hands_  
_look deep into his eyes_  
_share kisses_  
_explore his body_  
_hold him in my arms_  
_wake up in the same bed as a couple_  
_have showers together as a couple_  
_lick his armpits_  
_kiss his ankles_  
_find out how sensitive his nipples are_  
_fondle and suck his testicles_  
_take his penis into my mouth_  
_bring him to orgasm_  
_taste his ejaculate_  
_massage his prostate_  
_lick his anus_  
_penetrate him_  
_make him come any other way he might want me to_  
_kiss his feet, his hands, all of his body_  
_feel him come inside me_  
_know him intimately as my life partner_  
_whisper "I love you" into his ear_

The list goes on. Though he hurts, he feels numb, even too exhausted to cry. There is absolutely nothing he can do to change John's mind. He can feel John watching him, gauging how best to 'help' him. He does not want his pity. He does not want 'help'. Two lone tears escape his eyes, he does not want John to see him cry.

John left his armchair briefly, now Sherlock hears him settle back into it. It is just past 7 PM when he falls asleep.

***


	4. facilitating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, erm, Sherlock, what's going on?" Lestrade ventures once they have reached the landing on the second floor, are out of John's earshot.

When Sherlock wakes up 20 minutes later, he keeps his eyes closed. Remembering that John does not love him, he does not feel better, takes note of the words he is thinking:

  
_soaring_  
_falling_  
_roaring_  
_make it_  
_break it_  
_shake it_  
_conforming_  
_consorting_  
_looming_  
_triage_  
_baggage_  
_barrage_  
_inferior_  
_interior_  
_ulterior_  
_former_  
_cornered_  
_mourning_  
_serious_  
_superfluous_  
_dangerous_  
_waxy_  
_stony_  
_lonely_  
_watch_  
_listen_  
_think_  
_be_  
_be_  
_be_  
_breathe_  
_question_  
_fracture_  
---  
  
  
Just then, John's phone rings.

"Hello?"

...

"Yes, well, not unusual that his phone is turned off. I'll see if he is available. Hang on." John gets up, shakes Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, it's Lestrade. Case..."

Sherlock rubs his eyes, as if he is just waking up now, takes the phone from John.

"Yes." His voice sounds flat, even to him.

...

"Hm," he sighs. "Really, you call me for _that_?" Pursing his lips, he shoots a glance at John, who looks tense. With his free hand over his eyes, he agrees, "Alright. I'll be there in a bit. Don't let Anderson touch anything yet. - Please. And thank you." He hangs up, sits up, hands John's phone back to him.

"Since when do you say 'please' and 'thank you' when it comes to Anderson?" John asks, surprised by the sudden appearance of manners.

Sherlock does not answer, gets up, heads for the bathroom. "I'll have a quick shower. You may come along to the crime scene, if you wish," he offers, not looking back. "Do you need a shower as well? You can join me," he teases, 99.99% sure John will come along to the crime scene, but not join him in the shower.

Since John has not seen him completely naked, he decides to leave the bathroom door open, to give him the opportunity to see what he is missing, in case he wants to look. Which, again, Sherlock is 99.99% sure John will not.

Before taking his clothes off he searches for his razorblades. They are not at their usual place, his old-fashioned shaving razor is also missing, so is the belt from his bathrobe. From the bathroom he goes into his bedroom to check whether John was in there while he slept on the couch. Both keys are gone from the doors leading into his bedroom, all his belts, ties, scarves and even shoelaces are missing. He does not bother checking whether any sharp knives are left in the kitchen, or John's gun in the drawer of his nightstand upstairs.

He returns to the bathroom, quietly takes his shower. Towelling off, he notices John left the t-shirt he wore the day before hanging on the hook behind the door. He takes it along into his bedroom.

For a change, he decides to wear casual jeans, a navy t-shirt and plain forest green jumper instead of the cream-colored patterned one similar to John's - yes, he has one. John's t-shirt finds its way folded neatly into the back waistband of his jeans. For shoes, he wears loafers, because shoes without laces are not suitable should he have to give chase.

Three pairs of socks and pants, an extra t-shirt, small towel, hairbrush, shampoo, soap, toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, plastic tumbler, two bottles of water and the box of crackers are stuffed into a knapsack. For outerwear, he retrieves a light anorak, early summer evenings can still be a bit chilly.

"I see you made the rounds while I slept. Can't blame you," Sherlock addresses John casually in the living room, adding his laptop and charging cables for it and his cell phone.

"I was," John admits. "I know a few hiding spots myself here, you'll have to give me credit."

"I won't bother looking then. - Ready?" Sherlock asks, noticing John is wearing loafers as well. Apparently he included some of his own belongings in the 'safety precautions'.

"Are you going somewhere?" John asks, narrowing his eyes, referring to the knapsack slung across Sherlock's shoulder.

"I may. What is it to you?"

"Can I have a look? As your concerned friend?"

Sherlock, already at their apartment door, purses his lips, hands John the requested item. Swallowing, John takes it, has a look inside. His jaw muscles clench again, he holds the charging cables in his hand.

"Oh, apparently you forgot those. I won't be using those to hurt myself, don't worry." Sherlock tries to make light of John's concern for his safety, though he understands it is no laughing matter at all.

John puts the charging cables back into the knapsack, hands it back to Sherlock, who adds sunglasses and a baseball cap, and secures a rolled up lightweight blanket under the top flap.

"After you." Sherlock holds the apartment door open for John, the knapsack is slung over his shoulder. Making sure he has his wallet and cell phone along, he locks their apartment door, then follows John down the stairs.

Sitting on opposite ends of the back bench, the knapsack resting by his feet, he gives the taxi driver the address of the crime scene.

"So, what's the case about?" John asks finally, trying to speak about something 'normal' with Sherlock.

"Triple homicide in adjoining duplexes. So the victims most likely knew each other."

John's eyebrows rise. "Lestrade called you for _that_?"

"My words exactly!" Sherlock agrees, though there is no exasperation in them at all.

John sighs, runs his hand over his forehead. He turns to look at Sherlock, his back against the taxi door. "Look..., I _am_ sorry I cannot reciprocate your feelings for me."

Sherlock blinks, turns only his head to look at John. "I hear you. Thank you for being honest with me. I accept what you are saying, that you cannot reciprocate..." Sad, he looks at the floor, the knapsack flanked by his feet.

"You're sleeping at home tonight?"

John's concern for his platonic-only-friend is palpable. Sherlock does not answer.

Arriving at the crime scene, he pays the driver. Sergeant Donovan and Anderson are waiting in front of the crime scene tape for them. Both frown, presumably at Sherlock wearing different clothes. Donovan is the one who can't keep herself from commenting.

"Freak! Something happened?" Her usual greeting and an expression of her curiosity escape her lips.

Sherlock stops, glances from her to Anderson, then back. "Fuck buddies at best, the two of you, I'd say. But it is really none of my business. You both _should_ mind your own."

"Stop calling him that!" John scowls at Donovan, quietly hisses "Language!" at Sherlock.

"Oh, it's the truth," Sherlock insists briefly looking at John, "I am not going to apologize for that."

A small crowd has gathered on the other side of the street. Sherlock scans the crowd, before asking Anderson which of the duplexes they should look at first.

"In this one," Anderson points behind himself, "the daughter found her parents deceased when she came home from uni. She says she went to the neighbor for help, found the door unlocked, him deceased as well. Naturally she is quite upset. I haven't been able to process most of the crime scenes, because of _you_!"

"Very _well_!" Sherlock turns to look at the onlookers across the street again. A young man, wearing a baseball cap backwards, with a lost expression on his face, stands out to him. He follows his line of sight, then enters the neighbor's duplex, John close behind.

Dead in his living room lies a man in his mid-twenties, of Pakistani descent, cause of death, knife wound to the heart, is immediately obvious. Sherlock asks John for approximate time of death anyway.

"Less than one hour," John confirms his own conclusions.

After a brief walk around the living room and more thorough look around the victim's bedroom, Sherlock says "I've seen enough, let's move on to the other duplex."

John wonders how Sherlock can have seen 'enough' in the few minutes, but follows him.

In order to give Sherlock and John undisturbed access, Lestrade has asked the daughter, who is sobbing, to wait outside. Donovan and Anderson keep her company, ignore Sherlock and John as they pass them.

"Good evening, Detective Inspector," Sherlock greets, making his way immediately over to the dead couple, who also lie in their living room with knives in their hearts.

Lestrade's eyes widen. Taking in Sherlock's appearance and the knapsack on his back, picking up on the tension between him and John right away, he approaches John, with a puzzled look asks, "Okay, it's your lives, but what is going on between you two?"

"Is it that obvious?" John asks, pained, hands clasped behind his back.

Lestrade only shakes his head, incredulous, he can only guess at what happened.

"Normally you'd be right over there with him. But you're here. - And what's with the knapsack?"

John shrugs his shoulders. Sherlock has gotten up, looks at items and photographs in the living room, then proceeds into the parents' bedroom.

"John, can you have a look, please? Approximate time of death, in your capable opinion? - Lestrade, I need to see the daughter's bedroom. - Gloves?"

Lestrade throws John a pointed look, then hands Sherlock a pair of disposable gloves and leads him up a flight of stairs, while John kneels beside the dead couple.

"So, erm, Sherlock, what's going on?" Lestrade ventures once they have reached the landing on the second floor, are out of John's earshot. When Sherlock remains quiet, he adds, "You _can_ talk to me, about anything. I want you to know that."

"Less than two hours," they hear John calling from the living room. "Cause of death same as the neighbour."

"Thank you, John. Obviously!" Sherlock shouts back down, rolling his eyes.

When it becomes obvious that Sherlock will not share about whatever he seems to be struggling with at this time, Lestrade points to the end of the hallway. "Last room on the left. You can take your time. I'll be downstairs. - If you need help with anything, let me know, alright?" He pats Sherlock on the shoulder, then heads back downstairs.

In the living room, he joins John, who is standing a few meters from the dead couple, scribbling notes on a notepad, presumably for a blog entry.

"John," Lestrade's voice sounds insistent, "what _is_ going on? He's like... withdrawn." He struggles to express his impression of the detective.

John takes a deep sigh, blinks a few times. As Sherlock is coming back down the stairs, with an apparent spring in his step, he is spared to try to answer.

"Gentlemen," Sherlock's eyes smile, "the victims are related."

Both John and Lestrade frown, Lestrade asks, "How?"

"The 'neighbor' is this couple's adopted son. He is, was, their daughter's adopted brother. The parents owned both duplexes, rented the unit next door to their 'son'. The daughter fell in love with her 'brother'. Though not biologically related, the parents, once they found out, firmly opposed the possibility of a relationship with him, for which she hated them. She believed that once they were 'out of the way', he would stop thwarting her advances. _But_ , what neither she nor the parents knew, is that he was homosexual." Sherlock's eyes have stopped smiling, he looks serious.

John's mouth has opened, he and Lestrade look at each other.

"When she approached him again, he finally told her that he could never be intimate with her, though he did _not_ tell her that his heart already belonged to a man. - Upstairs, you will find a diary under her mattress. Also, across the street, among the onlookers, is the young man's lover. Bring her in for questioning, she should confess in short order." Sherlock heads out the front door. John and Lestrade follow suit.

"Sally," Lestrade addresses Donovan, who is just handing a facial tissue to the daughter to wipe her eyes with, "please bring her to the station for questioning. I'll be along soon."

Sally gives him a questioning look, then glances at Sherlock's back as he is about to cross the street.

"Anderson, you can go in now. Thank you for having waited!" Lestrade stresses. He follows Sherlock and John across the street, where Sherlock directly walks up to a young man, who wears his baseball cap backwards, stretches his hand out to him.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock introduces himself. "Condolences. I understand you knew one of the victims." He leaves out the word 'intimately'. "He mentioned his adopted sister's advances toward him?"

At first the young man shrinks back, but then takes Sherlock's hand upon hearing acknowledgement that he knows of their relationship. "Thank you," he nods, blinking away tears. "No one in his family knew. They were homophobic. - Yes, he mentioned." He keeps blinking, devastated by his loss.

"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock introduces Lestrade. "He will take your statement, which will contribute to convicting his killer."

Lestrade shows his badge, introduces himself.

"We'll be on our way. Thank you for having called, Greg." Sherlock touches John's small of the back very briefly, motioning him away from the crime scene area.

Lestrade's head turns sharply at hearing Sherlock, for once, get his first name right. He pointedly looks at John, as if John has the power to fix whatever is 'wrong' with Sherlock.

A taxi shows up a minute later, they get in. Sherlock takes a good look at the taxi driver, writes something on a piece of paper, hands it to him, along with the fare. John frowns at the unusual proceedings, but relaxes when he hears the address, "221B Baker Street. No rush."

Sherlock sits closer to John this time, the knapsack on the bench, between him and the taxi door.

"That was amazing!" John is genuinely impressed. "That took, like, ten minutes!" He smiles happily at Sherlock, in his enthusiasm briefly touches Sherlock's knee, without asking. He is not paying attention to the street or traffic outside.

Sherlock looks at the spot where John touched him, sad at first, then with a wistful smile turns toward him.

"John, thank you for everything. ... Thank you for being my friend. ... May I give you a hug?" Sherlock ducks his head just a little, appears shy asking.

"Of course," John agrees without hesitation, taking this as a turning point, for the better, he hopes. Before he can take another breath, Sherlock's arms are around him, tight, Sherlock's head is pressed against his, he closes his eyes.

 _This is it,_ Sherlock thinks, _this may be the only time I will ever hold him in my arms._ He takes a deep breath of the scent of John's hair, _John, I love you..._ , tries to memorize it, how exactly it feels to hold him, _John, I'll miss you..._

The taxi is approaching an intersection. Ahead, the traffic light is turning red, the taxi slows down, comes to a stop.

"I may not see you for a while. Be well, John!" Sherlock squeezes the man he loves briefly, then lets go.

"What?" John asks, confused by the sudden loss of contact with Sherlock. He opens his eyes.

Sherlock has grabbed his knapsack, opened the taxi door, after dashing out pushed it shut, just as the taxi is already pulling away on the now green traffic light.

"Sherlock!" John calls after him, turns to keep looking after him. Sherlock's long legs carry him fast as he runs away on the sidewalk, down the street, disappears into a tube station.

"Stop!" John shouts at the taxi driver, who does not react. "Pull over, let me off," he insists, to no avail. _The piece of paper!_ John concludes. He memorizes the taxi driver's name, visible on his taxi driver ID stuck to the dashboard, then pulls out his phone to call Mycroft. To his frustration, it does not turn on. He checks the battery. It is gone.

***


End file.
